


Worse Reasons To Go

by zeldamonkey



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, brits 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldamonkey/pseuds/zeldamonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Choose, from the following options, your preferred headcanon for why Harry was late to the stage to accept an award at the Brits 2014. Was he:<br/>a) having a wee-wee;<br/>b) sending a tweet; or<br/>c) sucking Nick Grimshaw off in the toilets?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worse Reasons To Go

**Author's Note:**

> Fiction, obviously, as it tends to be much more entertaining than real life.

Nick's talking to Finchy when feels his phone buzzing in his pocket with a new message. He thinks he's pretty subtle about how he drops a hand under the table to palm it out of his trousers, but Matt Fincham knows all his moves. He rolls his eyes at Nick.

"Go on, Grim," he says. "I don't mind, we were only having a conversation."

"Well, it might be important," Nick says. He and Matt both know it probably won't be, though; there aren't many people with enough cheek to text Nick in the middle of an awards show he's presenting at.

He thumbs the phone on under cover of the tablecloth. As expected, he's got one new text from Harry: _Like your look tonight, Grim, strong choice of scarf_

Nick grins. He glances across the room to the table Harry's sat at, but Harry's not looking at him, he's laughing at something one of his boys has said.

 _Ta_ , Nick texts back, _got it off some bloke I know who's looking pretty good tonight too_

It's only a minute before his phone goes again with Harry's reply: _Thanks. My pants are a bit uncomfortable, though, might be a tag or something bothering me I think?_

Oh, no. Nick has a sinking feeling about where Harry's going with this. Sure enough, a second later he gets another text: _Come and help me check? Meet you in the toilets in five_

Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Nick glances hopelessly across the room again, but just as he expects, Harry's no longer sitting in his place. Oh, fuck.

His face must be a picture, because Finchy says, "Grim? You ok?"

"Fine," Nick says. He takes a fortifying swig of his wine, then another. He's an adult, he can do this. He can withstand Harry Styles' exhibitionist ways.

"Was that Harry?" Finchy asks. "What am I saying, of course it was. What did he want?"

"Nothing - nothing important." Because Nick's not going to do it, he's just not. He is not getting off with Harry Styles in the toilets. Nick's presenting an award tonight, for fuck's sake.

Then his phone buzzes for a fourth time, and this time there's a picture message waiting for him. Nick opens it, knowing even as he does that he's sealing his own doom.

It's a shot of Harry's open trouser flies, the tails of that unforgettably patterned shirt hanging down, and the line of his hard cock clearly visible through the thin cotton of his pants. It's ridiculously hot whilst stopping short of actually pornographic, and Nick spares a moment to be thankful that Harry's had the sense not to send an actual dick pic. The accompanying text says _Hurry up! If youre not here in one minute I'll have to start without you :(_

Fuck. Nick abruptly shoves his phone back in his pocket and stands up. Matt's staring at him, and Ian and Fiona pause in their conversation to look at him, too.

"I've just - got to go to the toilet," he blurts to the table at large. "Nerves and too much wine, you know."

He can see the moment Matt gets it - he looks at Nick, then across the room at Harry's empty place, then back at Nick again. "Grimmy - " he begins warningly.

"Don't," Nick cuts him off. "I'll be back in a minute, alright? No one'll even notice."

Matt's clearly dying to give him a lecture, but he must see something determined in Nick's face, because he limits himself to, "Be careful, at least, will you?"

Nick gives him a nod, and then he's off, winding his way through the tables to where his memory tells him the loos are located. When he gets close there's a minder who points him in the right direction, down a long corridor. Why the toilets are always so far away at award shows, Nick'll never know. 

It's still probably only been a couple of minutes since Harry's first text when Nick comes to a stop outside the door to the men's, heart thumping away and half-hard in his trousers as he thinks about what he's about to do. Still, he thinks, it's Harry Styles; Nick'd do a lot worse than this to make him happy.

The toilet is mercifully empty when Nick walks in, except for Harry, who's standing by the sinks pretending to fix his hair. He turns immediately.

"There you are, Nick, fuck. What took you so long?"

He grabs Nick's hand and pulls him into the large disabled cubicle, locking the door behind them. Then he pushes Nick back against the door and goes to work on Nick's flies.

Nick's still trying to catch his breath. "Hey, steady on there, popstar," he says. "Don't I even get a kiss hello?"

Harry pushes Nick's pants and trousers down to his thighs and gives Nick a _look_. "If you wanted kissing you should have gotten here faster," he says, "I've got an award to win in a minute and Lou'll never stop taking the piss if I'm late back."

Then he drops to his knees and takes Nick's cock in his mouth.

Nick's head bangs back into the stall door with a thunk, and distantly he registers that it probably hurts. But only distantly: most of his brain is occupied with the hot, sweet warmth that is Harry's mouth.

No matter how often they do this, the sight of Harry on his knees for him still takes Nick's breath away. Harry really, really loves sucking cock, is the thing, and he gives his whole self over to it, slurping around Nick's cock like it's the best thing he's tasted all night. He's got one hand stuffed into his own trousers, too, jacking himself to the rhythm of his mouth on Nick.

Harry quickly gets Nick properly wet, and though Nick doesn't talk much during sex - Harry always jokes it's the one time he doesn't have anything to say - Harry’s a loud one, his moans and the obscene sloppy noises echoing around the bathroom. Nick fervently hopes no one's come in whilst they've been at it. There's no mistaking what they're doing in here.

Mercifully, Harry's not pulling his punches, using every trick he's learned over the years to get Nick close as fast as possible. The hand he's not using on himself is roaming, cupping Nick's balls one minute, then sneaking round the back to rub one spit-damp finger over Nick's hole. 

It doesn't take more than a couple of minutes before Nick feels his orgasm starting to build. He lets himself enjoy Harry's mouth for a moment longer, then taps him on the shoulder - he knows better than to touch Harry's quiff. "'M close, love."

"Mm-mph," Harry says, mouth still on the head of Nick's cock. His hand comes back round to hold the base and he starts jacking what he can't fit in his mouth, firm hard strokes that'll get Nick there quickly.

"Haz, seriously." Nick squeezes Harry's shoulder. "Come on. Off."

Harry finally pulls off, but his hand stills on Nick's cock as well. "I _said_ , I want it," he says. "Come on, Nick, do it, I want to taste you." He ducks back down and takes Nick into his mouth again.

"Oh, Christ, love." It's not that Harry never swallows - he does, sometimes, when he's in the mood - but the thought of Harry sucking Nick off and swallowing his come and then going back out there to accept an award on live television, innocently thanking the fans with his lips still hot and swollen - 

Nick's brain whites out and he's coming, pulsing hot and wet into Harry's mouth, hips jerking forwards and making Harry choke a little bit before he gets himself back under control, swallowing frantically.

"Fuck, Nick, fuck."

Harry sits back on his heels and jacks himself hard and fast, twisting his wrist just a little on the upstroke, just the way he likes it. His chin is wet and he's got a little bit of Nick's come on the corner of his lips.

"Harry, fuck. Let me." Nick reaches forward to help but Harry knocks his hand away, panting. 

"No, 'm close, leave it."

"Haz, come on, get your pants off at least, you'll make a mess." But Harry's not listening, or he's too far gone to care. Thinking quickly, Nick lunges across and reels off a long line of loo roll, wadding it up and shoving it at Harry just in time for him to shoot into it with one last, drawn out moan.

There's silence for a second, then a loud knock on the outer door and someone calls out, "Harry Styles? Is Harry Styles in there? If you are, get a move on, you're about to win an award."

"Fuck!" Nick scrambles at his pants. He knew this was going to happen. 

Harry blinks slowly up from his knees, then the words seem to register with him too and he pushes up to stand. He chucks the soiled loo roll in the toilet and wipes himself off with a fresh handful, then tucks himself back into his pants and does up his trousers.

“Don’t stress, Grim, it’s not you they’re after,” he says as he fumbles at his zipper.

“Still. Come on, get to the sink, you’ve got - stuff on your mouth.”

Harry tidies himself up as best he can with a damp paper towel. Nick's been careful not to touch his hair, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about that. 

“Alright?” he asks Nick, turning away from the sink.

Nick looks him over. He looks remarkably good, actually - Nick supposes that’s one of the benefits of going around all the time looking like sin incarnate, it makes it harder for people to tell when you have just sucked someone off in the loos.

“You’ll do,” he says. “Now get back out there already, you'll miss your award and then you’ll be in trouble.”

Harry shrugs. "Nah, I'll just say I needed a wee. Bet they'll think it's funny.”

Nick has no idea how he managed to fall in love with such a ridiculous person. "Go on, popstar. Really. I'll hang about in here for a minute before I go back."

Harry pauses, one hand on the door. "See you after?"

"Of course."

"Good. 'Cause when we get home I want you to eat me out and then I'm going to ride you." With one last smirk over his shoulder, he saunters out the door.

 

Nick really hopes there aren't any cameras on him as he makes his way back to his seat: these trousers do nothing to hide the way Harry's parting words have his cock back at half-mast. Fincham’s knowing smirk doesn’t help, and nor does the sight of Harry, on stage, apologising charmingly for being late and generally looking like butter wouldn’t melt. Bloody popstar, honestly; Harry’ll get Nick sacked one of these days, the way he carries on.

On reflection, Nick thinks, there could be worse reasons to go.


End file.
